Bobby was looking at the attendant’s companion.
“Stokes, isn’t it?” Bobby said. “Tim Stokes, I think?”
“That’s right, Mr Owen,” the other answered, looking a little uncomfortable.
For he and Bobby knew each other well. One of the very first duties Bobby had been called upon to perform after his acceptance of the Scotland Yard appointment had been to sit on a disciplinary board before which had appeared Mr Stokes, then a station sergeant in the double X division. Sergeant Stokes had clearly been guilty of gross neglect of duty; but there was little to substantiate the more serious suspicion that for some time he had been working with a criminal gang, giving them information of police procedure and plans. This he had strenuously denied, and all that could be done was to dismiss him from the Force for his proved negligence. Since then little had been heard of him, but Bobby had seen one report to the effect that ex-Sergeant Stokes had been noticed on several occasions loitering near the Canon Square car park, whence rather too many cars had vanished, even though nearly all had been quickly recovered. It had almost begun to seem that this car park was being made use of as a handy spot where to find a car when any rogue happened to have need of one. Finally the car attendant had been changed, and as a result cars appeared now to be more inclined to stay put. Nothing to implicate Mr Stokes, though.
The attendant drew back the sheet Bobby had replaced to cover the dead man’s face. Stokes said slowly:
“That’s him right enough. Poor old Joey. Never thought he would end up that way.”
“Known him long?” Bobby asked.
Still speaking slowly, even too slowly, Stokes answered:
“I don’t know as you could rightly call it knowing him. I used to see him at ‘The Green Dragon’. That’s the house I use pretty regular, and so did he. We got chatting. About the dogs generally. He was interested, and so was I. He knew a lot. Tipped me off on a good thing more than once. That’s all.”
“I think not,” Bobby said, and Stokes looked hurt. Bobby went on: “Any idea who did this? Or why?”
“I wish I had,” Stokes answered; and this time not slowly at all but with an emphasis and vigour that at least sounded genuine, sounded, indeed, as if inspired by real feeling. “Joey was always straight with you, always ready to do you a good turn.” He looked again at Bobby and spoke with the same emphasis as before: “If I knew anything to help you spot who did him in, I would tell you quick as you like. And so would others, too. One of the best. But I don’t, Mr Owen, sir, and that’s gospel.”
Bobby was not sure whether to believe this or not. Stokes seemed really moved. But, then, that made it all the more difficult to believe that his acquaintance with the dead man had been as casual as he pretended. Strange, too, that he had heard so quickly of what had happened and come so promptly, to identify the victim. But for the accident of Bobby’s presence, would that identification have been made, or would Stokes have slipped away, satisfying himself, but saying nothing? Stokes was speaking again. He said:
“It’s a bad business. I don’t hold with murder. So I don’t. You can believe me, Mr Owen. If I get to know anything, I’ll pass it on O.K.” Again there seemed real feeling in his voice. “Poor old Joe,” he said once more.
“If you feel like that,” Bobby asked quietly, “why not tell us all you really know?”
“So I have,” Stokes asserted, and, as if to avoid saying more went to help the attendant rearrange the sheet covering the dead man. “Narrow squeak that first time,” he remarked. “Must have meant it all right to shoot again. Wonder why any one had it in for him so bad as that?”
“How do you mean—narrow squeak the first time?” Bobby asked.
“Well, it looks like it, don’t it?” Stokes said, and pointed to a small abrasion just above the top of the left ear where certainly, now it was pointed out, it seemed as if a bullet had grazed the head.
Bobby stooped to look, frowning and puzzled. When he looked up again Stokes had slipped away. The attendant said:
“If you ask me, guv., that bloke knows more’n he wants to say.”
Bobby nodded an absent-minded agreement and departed. He did not feel over-confident that the help Stokes promised would ever be received. The contrary, perhaps. But he decided that he would ’phone the D.D.I.—the Divisional Detective Inspector—and suggest that Mr Stokes should be kept under observation.
CHAPTER II
MISFITS
An odd, somewhat disturbing lack of conformity seemed to be shown in all this, or so Bobby thought in a worried way as he went slowly back to his waiting car. Too much that didn’t fit, he thought. That odd difference between the under and the outer clothing of the dead man, for example. A difference, too, between his physical condition and that usually found in the spiv: the ‘living-by-your-wits’ type to which he seemed to belong. And why did Stokes seem so genuinely moved by the death of a man whom yet he claimed to be no more than a public-house acquaintance, and why had he come so quickly to identify him? How, indeed, had he come to hear so soon? Not all the morning papers had even troubled to report the death of an unknown man in the East End.
Troubled by such thoughts, Bobby drove to the nearest police station, and there obtained the address where the murder had been committed.
“Angel Alley, cul de sac, off Emmett Street,” the station sergeant told him. “Tough district, sir. They copped it about there pretty bad in the first blitz. Nos. 5 and 6 at the top aren’t there any more. Blast did them in. No. 4 is unoccupied. Dangerous condition. No. 3 the same. No. 2 is let off to three families—all Irish, and they all take lodgers. Casual labourers mostly. Not a steady job to the whole boiling. Rowdy on a Saturday night and fight among themselves, but that’s all. We don’t interfere more than we can help, and they never lodge complaints. They would call that ‘snooping’ or ‘in-forming’. No. 1 is a low-class fancy house, let off in single rooms to women and no questions asked. We get complaints sometimes, but how can you prove that a drunken sailor didn’t lose his wallet or have his watch stolen somewhere else? Besides, they generally know better than to bring a charge. If they do, they are liable to get a brick heaved at them from round the corner, or something worse for that matter. The women all have their bullies.”
Bobby knew that well enough. It is an unhappy feature of all big ports, though one that is diminishing with the improved status and pay of the merchant seaman. Bobby said he thought he would go and have a look for himself. He couldn’t understand that business of the plan of his flat found in the dead man’s possession. And would the station sergeant inform Divisional Detective Inspector Ulyett that ex-Sergeant Stokes had identified the dead man, but claimed he had known him merely as a casual public-house acquaintance with whom his only tie had been a common interest in greyhound racing.
“Smells a bit, sir, don’t you think?” commented the station sergeant. “Sticks out a mile there’s more to it than that.”
Bobby agreed. He said he wondered if Mr Ulyett would think it as well to keep an eye on Stokes, or even take a statement from him. Having dropped this gentle and tactful hint he saw the station sergeant understood, Bobby departed. It was in fact fairly well understood in the Force that Ulyett, though an energetic, trustworthy officer of long and meritorious service, was a trifle lacking in imagination and initiative. Probably it was to the scarcity of suitable candidates during the war that he owed his promotion to the important post he now held.
From here Bobby drove to Angel Alley, or rather to the Canon Square car park. There he left his car, for he thought it better not to go in it to Angel Alley, where private cars were not often seen and where indeed it might receive undesirable attentions if left standing too long. He completed the journey on foot, and found Angel Alley to be a long, narrow court with four small three-story houses on one side and the tall blank wall of a warehouse on the other. The farther end, where two more houses had once stood, closing it, was now open to a waste of ruin and rubble that stretched to a main tho
roughfare behind, parallel with Emmett Street.
From the health point of view this was a considerable improvement, since the wind could now blow freely down the narrow court, but Bobby could not help reflecting that it was no longer a ‘cul de sac’, since access was easy from the main thoroughfare behind, across the still-uncleared mass of rubble and ruin that once had been occupied by two or three streets of small and humble homes. Convenient, Bobby reflected, for those who might wish to come and go unnoticed. Possibly examination might show signs of any such regular use. Not very likely, though, and then it was sure to be a favourite playground for children, who would probably leave their own tracks and destroy those of others. A point to keep in mind.
At first sight, Nos. 3 and 4 looked no more damaged than did Nos. 1 and 2, where occupation was apparently still permitted by the authorities. True, the windows of these latter houses had been repaired, though with glass through which vision was almost impossible, and No. 2 had been provided with a new door, while the windows of Nos. 3 and 4 were still gaping and shattered and their doors still hung drunkenly on broken hinges. But a glance within No. 3 showed no stairs standing, and a back wall sagging so dangerously that only beams shoring it up saved it from collapse. No. 4 was in slightly better condition. The stairs at any rate were still there and could still be used.
But now it began to occur to Bobby that the whole place was oddly silent and deserted. Even in Emmett Street, from which Angel Alley opened, there had not been many people about, and here there was no one. He would have expected to find gossiping groups on each doorstep, loiterers standing staring at ‘the scene of the crime’, excited children running about, a general air of bustle and interest in so sensational an event as murder breaking in unexpectedly on the ordinary routine of life. Yet he might have come to an uninhabited place, so still, so silent it was—not even an onlooker at a window, no one anywhere visible. Curious, he thought, but perhaps they had all adjourned to the public-house at the corner, opposite the warehouse. Or the light rain now beginning to fall might account for it. Indeed, when he looked round he saw a head poked out from the door of the public-house and turned his way. It was withdrawn swiftly. Bobby remained with an impression that there had been a kind of uneasy expectation about that brief appearance, an excitement or fear over something that it was thought might be about to happen.
Telling himself it would be as well to be on the alert, Bobby entered No. 4. A uniformed policeman at the head of the stairs got to his feet and peered down at him. Evidently the man had been sitting on the top stair, and Bobby thought he detected a smell of tobacco in the air. Very wrong, of course, for this was a tour of duty, and on duty smoking is strictly forbidden, especially so where Mr Ulyett reigned, for he was a strict disciplinarian. But Bobby belonged to that class of senior official who know well when it is best not to know. He gave his name, and the constable said he knew Mr Owen, he had attended one or two of Mr. Owen’s lectures—those being given to new recruits and men rejoining after long years of war service. So Bobby said he hoped they had been found helpful and interesting, and went on to remark that it all seemed very quiet and deserted outside. No one about, no staring and gaping spectators; he didn’t understand it. The constable, who had given his name as Dawson, said in a worried voice that he didn’t understand it either. And he didn’t much like it.
“There was plenty hanging about at first,” he said, “same as always when it’s murder, and then they all began to slip away till there was no one left. It was same as if they had got the word to go and knew it was best to do as told.”
“Did you notice any one giving orders or directing in any way?” Bobby asked.
“No, sir, nothing like that. They just began to slip off one by one till no one was left. Even the children were quiet and went off all silent like. It seemed unnatural, somehow.”
Bobby rubbed hard the end of his nose, a gesture indicating extreme perplexity and some uneasiness. He thought it very unnatural indeed. Dawson was plainly worried, and Bobby was inclined to think he had reason.
“The calm before the storm,” said Dawson unexpectedly.
“Yes, but what storm?” Bobby asked, and to that Dawson had no answer. Nor Bobby either, for that matter.
“There can’t be anything else in the house, can there?” Bobby asked. “I take it it’s been searched?”
“Well, sir,” Dawson answered, “I don’t know as you can call it searched. Dabs took, of course, and photos and all that before the body was moved, and a general look round to make sure there was nobody hiding and for the murder weapon. Mr Ulyett is coming himself for another look as soon as he can, but you know yourself, sir, how busy he is with other cases and about the Duchess of Wharton’s jewellery being heard of in these parts.”
Bobby nodded. He was inclined to suspect that Ulyett would think it more important to trace the Wharton jewellery, if possible, than to find the murderers of an unknown man who was probably one of a gang himself, no loss to the community, and certainly without the power the Whartons possessed to make themselves a nuisance to an overworked and worried D.D.I.
“Nothing else you’ve noticed?” Bobby asked.
“No, sir,” Dawson answered. “Nothing—except …”
“Yes. Well?” Bobby encouraged him when he hesitated.
“Except just before they all slipped off the way I said, there was a young lady came. I was on the front door then, and I noticed her because of her being different—a real lady, sir; you could see at once. A sort of a way with her. You couldn’t miss it and how she looked out of place, and yet as if she were quite at home, too, because of being so sure of herself.”
“The governing-class touch,” Bobby commented with a faint smile—for now that is a trifle out of date—but keenly interested all the same, for what was a girl like that doing in Angel Alley in the East End of London? “Did she speak to you?” he asked.
“No, sir. When I saw her first she was talking to one of the women, and then she went away. I asked if they knew the young lady. I thought it might be some one from the church. They all said they had never seen her before and she was only asking what had happened because of the way every one was standing about and staring. When they said a man called Joey Parsons had been murdered at No. 4 she looked very upset and went off in a great hurry. ‘Looked like death, they said.”
“Pity you didn’t get her name and address,” Bobby remarked. “It looks as if she knew something and ought to be questioned. Oh, I’m not blaming you, Dawson,” he added. “You did very well to notice her at all. But we must try to get hold of her if we can. She may turn up again somewhere, I suppose. There’s reason to think these jewel-thieves get inside information, and it may come from some society hanger-on—a woman, possibly. Can you describe her?”
“Smart young lady,” Dawson answered at once and very much as if she had made an admiring impression on him. “She had on a check coat and skirt, one of those scarf things for a hat and a swell handbag it’s a wonder they let her get away with. It was her class air did it, most like. They didn’t dare.”
“More likely because she seemed to know something about Mr Joseph Parsons,” Bobby commented. “They may have guessed she was one of the gang. Or known she was, for that matter. What about her looks?”
“Well, sir, I never saw her face plain, only just for a moment, and what I noticed mostly was how strange and startled she stared. On the small side, though—about five foot one or two. Small face, dark complexion, brunette type. I remember her nose, somehow; it seemed to stick out in a way. I’m afraid that’s all I can say, sir. I only had just a glimpse. I’d know her again all right, though. She’s the sort you remember. I’m sorry I can’t say more, sir.”
“Oh, that’s quite good,” Bobby told him. “Quite as much as any one could expect. We might get more from the women she spoke to.”
But Dawson shook his head and spoke with emphasis.
“No, sir,” he declared. “I know that Irish lot, and you won�
��t ever get them to help police. Sort of principle with them not to.”
“Agin the Government and all its works, I suppose,” agreed Bobby. “Oh, well, Mr Ulyett will know how to carry on.”
“Yes, sir. I heard him saying we should have to take statements from them all as soon as he could get down to it. Most likely their line will be that they don’t know a thing about anything. They’ve said already they didn’t know there was any one using this house in any way. They never saw any one going in or out, and access must have been gained across the open bombed area at the back.” He added hesitatingly: “It did just cross my mind it might be the young gentleman in Emmett Street had something to do with this young lady.”
“What young gentleman was that?” Bobby asked. “Does Mr Ulyett know?”
“Yes, sir. Bert Barlow was on this beat yesterday afternoon, and he reported it when he heard about the murder. But Mr Ulyett said there wasn’t enough to go on and nothing to show any connection, seeing it was early afternoon and the murder was after dark, the doctor said.”
“What was the report? Do you know?”
“Barlow said he noticed the young man because he didn’t look as if he belonged to these parts—a real gentleman, he looked. Barlow said he seemed to be looking around as if he wasn’t sure of his way, and Barlow rather expected to be asked. But instead the young gent, crossed to the other side of the street in a bit of a hurry, Barlow thought, and went into a shop. When he came out he went straight to Angel Alley. Barlow guessed he had been asking his way there and most likely he had been at the fancy house with one of the women and lost a watch or money he wanted back. Barlow thought likely that was why the young gent, had sort of tried to dodge him, because of not wanting it known where he had been, so he didn’t bother any more. Only when he heard of the murder he thought it best to mention it.”
“Quite right, too,” Bobby said. “You never know. I think I’ll have a look round now I’m here. This is the murder room, I take it. Door locked. Have you the key?”
The House of Godwinsson: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 2
